


A story for twilight

by Elsane



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-10 00:54:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4370993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsane/pseuds/Elsane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A meeting in Ossiriand, recounted long afterwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A story for twilight

I met him once: Maedhros the Kinslayer. I didn't recognize him right away. His hair wasn't the color of blood or fire, like they tell it in songs; it was brown, and copper where the light struck it, which I put down at first to the setting sun. This was when I was keeping the trading post near Legonin, though already I was starting to wonder how much longer we would be able to stay. 

He looked like any other traveler, laden and footsore, if fortunate enough to still have horses to carry most of his baggage. Maybe he was more battered than most, but we had seen too many people fleeing east and south from the fighting to be surprised by any scars. 

"Good evening, mistress," he said. He was carrying a great bundle of canvas on his back, which he shrugged off and set by the door. 

"It's a bit late for business, isn't it?" I said. "I wouldn't recommend these woods alone after dark nowadays, especially not with horses."

His smile was small and self-deprecating. "I'm afraid I'm in a hurry." 

I liked that smile – that was one of the things that struck me afterward. It was a nice smile, and he gave one of his horses a fond and absent pat on its neck, and for a brief moment Maedhros the three-time Kinslayer was just a tall and tired visitor whom I was prepared to like. 

It was the hand that gave it away, of course. He was slow unloading the bags from the horses, and since it was getting late, I came out to help. I must have gasped when I realized, because he paused, and his mouth quirked backward, sardonic, before he resumed unclipping the baggage.

I had to clear my throat. "I suppose you'd better come in, then."

He inclined his head. "Thank you." 

I'd been trading supplies to the Kinslayers for a while, but usually the people they sent were shy young Sindar who had more the look of refugees than soldiers, which made things easier all around. Don't look at me like that – we had no walls, no armies, and no Silmarils, and the Kinslayers, whatever blood was on their hands, kept most of the orcs from crossing the Gelion. I'd never seen one of the sons of Fëanor in person. He did nothing more than politely follow me inside, stooping to clear the lintel, but I felt like I'd invited a stormcloud in as well as a person. 

I said, "Is everything well?"

"As it ever is," he said, "though there may be a change in weather coming. I've come to trade." Leather, nails, and needles were what the Kinslayers usually brought me, but this time he laid an arrowhead on the counter. "I brought four hundred like this." 

I shot a wary look at him, but picked it up. It was beautifully shaped and sharp as winds in winter, if entirely stark in its make. I couldn't deny that arrowheads were one of the things we needed most; our last metalworker had been slain ten years ago, and with so many orcs and wargs roving deep into Ossiriand, we'd been forced more and more to resort to light points and refletched orc-work. 

"What are you looking for in exchange?"

"As much grain as you can spare," he said, "and apples, if you have any."

"Done." But the harvests had not been good, and when I piled the sacks on the counter, I could see from his stillness that it was short of what he had been hoping for. He studied them for a moment, wearily, and the longer he said nothing the more sharply I felt my heart beat -- what? haggling? I'd like to see you haggle with Maedhros Fëanorion -- no, look, bargaining wasn't quite what we were doing, that's part of the point. 

Then he tapped the arrowhead on the counter again. "Four hundred arrowheads." 

"I'll help you load your horses," I said, on a rush of relief. I was also happier to be outside again, where I could put the open evening between us, though since Maedhros had been nothing but courteous I was careful not to insult him by staying on the far side of his horses the whole time.

He was leaning against the doorpost, his arms crossed. When I had just about finished tying up the packs, he said, "A company of the Host of the West should be here within the week." 

"Here!" I said, and a little dark spark of amusement flickered in his eyes.

"Indeed; my condolences. I expect they will pass through this town, in sore need of rest and resupply -- in which case I would advise you, incidentally, to sell fabric dear. May I ask you to deliver this to them, as part of their resupply effort?"

I untied the canvas just enough to see what was underneath, and stopped cold.

"Since we find," he was saying, "that this is the only way we can give our swords to their cause, which yet was first our own."

Swords and daggers, given to the Host of the West, from the hand of the Kinslayer -- I flinched back. In duress I'd use any blade to hand, and not care whose blood it had spilled before -- but as a deliberate gift to the armies of the Valar, such weapons were a calculated insult that took my breath away.

He must have expected that; he was watching my face, and his own eyes were hard, and armored in irony. "We melted down orc blades for the iron, and they have not been raised in anger since their forging. Tell the king he can wield them with a clear heart."

"The _king_?" I said, but after that I stopped asking; his expression had bent further into something bitter and bleak and curved in on itself, and it wasn't anything I wanted to understand. 

It seemed like a good time to take the arrowheads inside.

When I came back, he was feeding apples to his horses. Over his shoulder he said, "There may be more orc bands coming through the vale of Legonin in the next few days. Tell your people to be prepared."

I pressed my lips together, and then, I said, carefully, "Is there a message you would like me to pass on, with the swords?"

"Only what I told you," he said; "and if I thought they wouldn't recognize the school from the forging, I would not leave even that much. But I expect they will know."

He was right that they'd recognize the handiwork -- I suppose artists leave their signatures in metal as well as anywhere else, but I have never known that much about metalcraft. He was right about the orcs and the armies, too. I should probably have told the messengers of the Host of the West the whole story about the swords in the first place, but I was hoping not to have to mention that we had been trading with Kinslayers. 

That's how the King of all the Noldor in Valimar ended up in my little post in the woods of Ossiriand, in those last days when they had still been fair and green above the sea. He was tired, and plainly garbed in leaf-weave, but the stone on his brow shone with starlight, and his eyes were clear but very grave.

I had to tell him everything about Maedhros' visit, and when I got to his message about the swords, the King looked to the side, and for a long still moment said nothing at all.

Then he turned to me, and held out a ring. It was a slender graceful twist of silver, and its clear stone winked with red light when tilted -- yes, that one. He'd brought it from a pocket, not his finger; it was something he had brought with him for a purpose, you see, a message prepared, not a token of his own. He said, "If he returns, give him this, and tell him his uncle bids him remember that iron is not the only metal that can be re-forged."

But Maedhros wasn't going to come back -- it was clear -- that was why he had warned us about the orcs, and the armies, and left us with arrowheads in exchange for staples for a long march. "I don't think he will," I had to say, though my voice felt thin and scratchy after all of the King's golden graciousness.

The King's smile was brilliant and sad, and for the first time I could see the lines in his face that made him look anything akin to Maedhros. "Then bring it to me when you come West, and by its token we shall share bread and wine in the highest towers of Tirion."

The army left the next morning. I never saw Maedhros or any of his people again, and not long after that the Gelion started to flow grey and seethe with a stinking fog, and we left to cross the mountains for Eregion. 

So here is the ring, and now you know where it comes from and why I have never worn it. It's part of a story I don't know, and not one I particularly care to stick my fingers in the middle of. If I don't come back, take it to the Noldorin King if you sail West, and tell him that when I fell the last of his nephew's arrowheads were still killing orcs in Middle-Earth. The apples are packed in the tall baskets, and I put the salt venison in with them. I love you, and remember to take the ladders in at night.


End file.
